


Off The Rails

by AlmostDaringDreamer



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: (not today), (sorry), Angst, Barry is not in a good place at the beginning, But lots of fluff, Eddie and Ronnie died and it was sad, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Happy Ending, I'm not really fact checking man, M/M, Miscommunication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, break ups and makeups, but a pretty big part of the story, but it will be a fun ride, it gets so domestic, maybe one day - Freeform, no zoom, not the most original, post singularity, the barry/iris is temporary, the smaller details are not really accurate to the show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-01-15 14:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12323277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostDaringDreamer/pseuds/AlmostDaringDreamer
Summary: Barry doesn't always plan things out as well as he should, especially considering that half of the things he does these days are matters of life and death. But Iris - Barry has always had plans for Iris, has always imagined what he would do if he had her, how their lives together would play out.That's where his life is at right now, but for some reason, he's suddenly not so sure what he's meant to do. He's still got the whole plan, but he's not quite sure how his developing - Acquaintance? Friendship? - with Leonard Snart is meant to play into it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let me let you in on something: I should not be posting this. I am a very busy college student who ranks writing as one of my lower priority hobbies. I started writing this chapter at the beginning of July, and I'm only just now finishing it. It has not been edited. Who knows when I'll write more. But honestly, as my first work in this fandom, I'm curious about what kind of reception I can expect, so I'm too eager to not post. 
> 
> On another note, a few things:  
> 1) I change the tense to present in the middle of writing this, so if anything is weird, I'm sorry, and feel free to tell me. Again, not edited  
> 2) I haven't fact checked many things, so there may be inaccuracies to season 1 cannon. Feel free to tell me, if you want, but depending on how big they are, I might not want to bother fixing them because I'm a lazy kind of author.  
> 3) You will notice that I changed some details of Iris and Eddie's relationship basically to make Barry and Iris get together at a time that suited me. I'm sorry if that's confusing, you can always ask questions.  
> 4) This fic is cheesy and unoriginal and kind of self-indulgent, I think, but I really like, and I hope that it fulfills the part of you that really just wants content for this ship, because I know that's a pretty big part of me these days.  
> 5) If (IF) I successfully write this fic, it's gonna be long. First outline is 31 chapters. And this chapter (while not super long) is the longest thing I've ever written. And the outline for it was two sentences. (Some of the later chapters have page long outlines)

Sometimes Barry feels normal. When he was young and he thought about the future, he never imagined the idea of becoming the Flash or the events that followed. None of it had factored into the plans he had made himself - not the good parts, and certainly not the bad - but he can adjust to handle the loss and the betrayal, and things are moving forward. He kisses Iris in the morning, smiles at Joe at work, runs around the city as the Flash, and things are good. Not great, really, but good. Normal. Barry could be happy with it.

He could, but he isn’t.

That’s the crux of the matter. _Sometimes_ Barry feels normal and all the other times he feels so heavy that it seems like a miracle he can still run as quickly as he can when he is so weighed down.

His hero, his mentor, had been trying to destroy his life since he was eleven years old. His friends, the people he cared about, died trying to help him stop Eobard Thawne - Eobard Thawne who was only there in the first place because of his _personal_ vendetta against the Flash - who only hurt the people Barry loved because Barry loved them. Caitlyn had finally secured a future with Ronnie, only to lose him for the fourth and final time. Joe had lost another partner. Iris is still mourning over her almost-fiance.

And that’s another thing: thinking that Eddie had died heartbroken because of Barry. Eddie and Iris had been good together, until Barry shoved himself into the picture. Eddie and Iris had broken up a month before everything went to hell, and Barry and Iris hadn’t gotten together right away, but two weeks post-singularity, in the midst of the destruction and misery, they were seeking comfort in each other and that was that. Barry wouldn’t change it for the world, but the guilt still twists heavy in his stomach. It had been two months ago now.

Two months seems like seconds when Barry considers that he spent them with the woman he had spent almost two decades pining after, and comparatively two months is nothing. Two months seems like seconds when he considers that two months ago Eddie and Ronnie had still been breathing, and the wounds haven’t even begun to heal.

Two months seems like centuries when Barry considers that he spent them with the woman he loved, and he treasures every single second. Two months seems like centuries when he considers that two months ago Eddie and Ronnie had _still been breathing_ , and now they never would again and every second is a reminder.  

Barry just wants to fix it; pick up all the broken pieces and put them back together, but scotch tape and glue isn’t enough to hold the world together. Some broken things stayed broken. Barry does what he can, though, which tonight, is carefully righting all the bookshelves in a small store downtown, salvaging all the books he can and organizing them as neatly as he knows how. Most nights sleep either evades him or brings nasty nightmares, which is how Barry has taken to running through the city instead of getting proper rest. Two months and Barry has only just started to put a dent into the massive amount of damage the singularity had caused, but he is determined to keep at it until everything is as back to the way it had been as it can be.

It’s kind of like putting a bandaid over a bullet wound. It isn’t enough. The buildings aren’t the part that need to be fixed, not really, but the things that need to be fixed are the same things that will always be broken. Things like Eddie and Ronnie and the countless others who lost their lives. But going out at night and making this small difference, a gradual shift back to normalcy, is comforting enough that Barry keeps at it and feels just that little bit lighter.

He puts another book back on a shelf, more or less randomly, already losing track of the system he had tried to create. He thinks maybe this shelf was originally intended for romance novels, but there are also a few cookbooks on it and one suspiciously ridiculous self-help book, so a sci-fi novel finding its way into the mix really isn’t going to hurt anyone.

He’s moving at normal speed for now. A couple of months working repairs has taught him that running at 600 miles per hour in a space full of tripping hazards was a bad idea. It had taken some broken ribs for that lesson to properly sink in, but no matter how quickly he healed, fractured bones still hurt, so he isn’t going to keep making the same mistake. He has also learned that running a lot in a small space full of flammable objects - ie paper - could and would result in a fire. While his suit is resistant to the friction, books are not. Unfortunately, Cisco has not had the opportunity to Flash-proof everything in Central, though the man would probably be eager for the challenge if he had any realistic means of meeting it.

Doing things the slow way takes significantly longer, but Barry has time to burn. He knows he isn’t going to get more than a couple of hours sleep tonight anyway from the unnerving way his hands have been shaking all day, small tremors that are echoed in the pulsing hollowness in his chest. The labor is a nice way to distract himself from everything else, but it is only 3AM and the bookstore, as small as it is, has almost been fixed up to the best of Barry’s ability. All Barry has left is a modest stack of books to shelve, and he has plenty of space to put them, considering how many books were piled along the back wall, no longer suitable to be sold.

He slides the last books into place with a sigh that is a confusing mix of satisfied and disappointed. This is the last business on the block, which means Barry is that much closer to done. Closer to accomplished, and closer to being out of his personal therapy. He stares at the shelves for a moment before quickly rearranging the books to be in alphabetical order by author. After a further moment, he separates the fiction and nonfiction into their own sections. Tomorrow the owner of this place will come in and look around, and they will probably smile and maybe cry, and they will be happy, which is enough to make Barry smile, thinking about it.

It is 4AM when Barry gets back to his apartment, his regular shoes smoking slightly from the run between here and STAR labs where he stowed the suit. He kicks them off next to the door, where a faint scorch mark is already beginning to warp the wood from so many similar instances. His sneakers collide with and trip over Iris’ heels, the discarded shoes clattering against each other as Barry’s first clue of Iris’ presence. She has a key to his place and frequently comes over unannounced, especially if they haven’t had much opportunity to speak to each other during the day. Usually she comes over early enough that Barry is still home, in which case he delays going out until she is asleep, but this isn’t the first time she has come over later, when he is already working on the city. Iris knows what he’s been doing - she must, considering she’s already written a few articles about it - but she hasn’t asked him any questions directly, for which Barry’s grateful. There’s a reason that he does it in the dead of night; he doesn’t particularly want to talk about it.

He grabs one of the calorie bars Cisco had made him from the cupboard, the ones Cisco calls “Cisco bars,” though Barry adamantly refuses to call them that himself. If he doesn’t eat before he goes to sleep, he will barely be able to drag himself out of bed in the morning, which is hard enough these days without adding hypoglycemia to the mix. The thing tastes like ass, but Barry is so accustomed to it that he barely notices anymore. His stomach turns anyway, for unrelated reasons.

He shoves the rest of the bar into his mouth resolutely, tosses the wrapper, and, with a hesitation that is hard to place, slips into his bedroom. Iris is splayed out along the side closest to the wall - Barry knows, from a plethora of sleepovers as they grew up, that Iris prefers the other side, but she knows how important it is for Barry to be able to come and go with ease. Her hair is a mess along her pillow and face. If he looks hard enough, he can see the gentle rise and fall of her breathing.

Barry loves Iris. Maybe that’s why it was so hard for him to look at her these days. He loves her so much, and that should be a happy thing, but Barry isn’t sure it is anymore. It used to be bright and shining, but nothing had remained untouched by the events since the lightning, not even that. Looking at her sometimes felt like a reminder of lost things, of the person who Barry Allen no longer was. He looks at her anyway. He looks, and tries to remember all the things he has.

Crossing the room as silently as he can, Barry sits on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping slightly beneath him. Iris sleeps so peacefully, her face smooth, and Barry feels a brief flash of jealousy as he wonders how many nightmares were going to wake him between now and 8AM. As far as he knows, Iris doesn’t have any nightmares - or at least, no more than the average person. She had had a rough few weeks after everything happened, but things have gotten better. Barry is happy about that, he is, but he has been having nightmares since he was eleven, and they have only ever gotten worse. It is hard not to be jealous.

With a sigh, he brushes Iris’ hair off her face, her expression barely twitching under his touch. He gets into the bed, pulls her slightly closer, and lets the warmth under the covers slowly drag him into sleep.

-x-

When Barry’s alarm rings in the morning, he lets it go for a moment. Sometimes, depending on his mood, it would be off in an instant, so fast it wouldn’t even get a chance to actually make any noise. Those are the mornings when Barry feels chased, when he is jittery and impatient and anxious. This morning he is exhausted. Exhausted in so many ways. Sleep deprivation isn't even among them, not really, but he is still too tired to even roll slightly to the side and reach out an arm. If not for his fingers curling into the bedspread, he might have wondered whether or not he was paralyzed. Everything about him feels heavy and thick. Iris groans at his shoulder, pressing her face into her pillow, one hand coming up weakly and uselessly to fend off the noise. Barry reaches over and turned the alarm off.

His body doesn’t protest the movement. The weight is in his head.

“When did you get in last night?” Iris asks groggily. One of her hands lands on Barry’s stomach as he sits up, instantly fisting into the fabric of his shirt. The sleep in her voice, the thoughtless way she holds onto him, the warmth in her eyes - it all makes moving easier. It reminds him why he gets up in the morning in the first place. He smiles and leans down to kiss her.

“Not too late,” he replies vaguely against her lips. If she knew that he had gotten in at 4AM, she probably would have thought he was lying, but there have been a few nights lately that Barry hasn’t bothered with coming home at all. As far as he is concerned, 4AM isn’t that late. After all, he has gotten almost four hours of (restless and interrupted) sleep, which is almost enough for him. He can survive on four hours a night for a solid week and a half before he crashes, and Barry is still at the beginning of this cycle. Only three days ago he had slept a solid thirteen hours, which means he still has at least a handful of days before he starts to feel the effects of his late nights.

Barry leaves Iris in bed, knowing it would take her a few more minutes to really join the waking world. He grabs another calorie bar to start his day, eating it absently as he goes about making breakfast.

Barry is by no means a world class chef. Up until the lightning, he had been hopeless in the kitchen, but with his metabolism up over 9000, he had quickly realized that a) trying to satisfy his appetite with take-out and Big Belly Burger would quickly bankrupt him and b) expecting anyone else to cook the ridiculous amount of food he needed was unreasonable, especially now that he had a place of his own (Joe, at one point, had grudgingly attempted to keep up with his appetite, before deciding that Barry was 26 and could make his own damn food). Cooking still isn’t his forte, but he has learned a thing or two, and making eggs and bacon was an easy enough task.

Iris drags herself out of bed just as Barry is portioning the food out onto two plates, and he passes her her’s as she walks by. She yawns as she takes her seat at the table, before smiling blindingly at Barry, still standing in the kitchen. For a moment, everything inside of him freezes in the best way, time slowing down around him for just an instant, and then he is smiling back. It is a good morning, Barry decides, moving to sit across from her.

“How’d you sleep?” she asks after a moment, her eyes soft. She knows that Barry has trouble sleeping, but he doesn’t think she grasps the full implications. Every morning, she asks the same question and Barry always answers the same way.

“Well enough.” The softness in Iris’ eyes hardens marginally every time Barry puts up walls like this. He knows she wonders why he does it. He wonders sometimes, too, but he keeps doing it anyway. There are some things - the broken things mostly - that he feels like he can’t let people see. A second of silence and Iris drops it, picking up something that was equally as uncomfortable in its stead.

“I was sad you weren’t here last night. I was looking forward to seeing you.” Iris smiles as she says it, and Barry lets his spine relax, reminding himself that she isn’t accusing him of anything.

“Yeah, I’m sorry I missed you,” he tells her honestly. The nights he spends with Iris are usually among his best, far superior to the ones he spends patrolling. “I should be home tonight, though.” Iris sighs.

“As much as I’d like to take you up on that, I’ve got an article due tomorrow morning that I really need to crack down on. But-” she gestures with her fork “-I’ll probably be stopping by the station later today to, you know, check my sources. So I’ll see you then.”

“Check your sources?” Barry questions with raised eyebrows.

“Oh yeah,” Iris confirms. “It’s very official journalist business, Barry, it’s not to be taken lightly.”

“Of course. And you have sources in the CCPD for your article on Mercury Labs’ new research project?”

“Of _course_. Intellicrops are of very dubious legality. And if my father and boyfriend just so happen to work in the building, well I suppose I could drop in and say hello.” Barry laughs, forfeiting the game.

“You know,” he says with an easy smile, “you could just bring us lunch.”

“But then I would have to buy you lunch,” Iris scoffs in reply. Barry laughs again, leaning across the table to kiss her. Catching sight of the clock on his way, he falls back into his seat, laugh cutting off into a groan.

“I’m late,” he says, head tipped back against his chair, resigned. It is Iris’ turn to laugh, uncaring of Barry’s kicked-puppy expression as he imagines the lecture he’ll get from Captain Singh if he is caught coming in tardy again.

“Fastest man alive,” she teases. Again, Barry leans across the table to kiss her, not aborting the motion this time.

“Gotta run,” he says when he pulls back. Then Iris is alone in the apartment, a smile on her lips and a lingering breeze stirring her hair.

-x-

Barry, unsurprisingly, arrives to the precinct five minutes late, though he wants it noted that five minutes late is actually around five minutes early by his standards. He doesn’t see the Captain on his way up to the lab, which is both a relief and a disappointment, because while he is spared a lecture, there are also no witnesses to his relative earliness, which is a shame.

Barry has reports to file that he has been putting off all week, but the good thing about being the fastest man alive is that he can easily bang them out in one morning. The only limiting factor really, is whether or not the computer will overheat if he types too quickly on it. Barry dashes back and forth between his computer and the relevant lab equipment - checking results, looking at data, doing the few tests that still need to be run.

Everything is done before lunch, though Barry feels vaguely frustrated because none of the results yielded much. Sometimes forensics are useful, crack whole cases open, and it is those times that Barry lives for, why he does what he does. But sometimes all it gives is little branches of information that will maybe become useful or will maybe not, and Barry just has to let it go into the hands of the officers and see how it plays out.

Barry goes downstairs to give the Captain the reports. Barry always tries to give the Captain as few reasons to come upstairs as possible. There have been a few close calls where Barry was late with his assignments and the Captain almost walked into a whirlwind of papers and lightning. Barry knows that his identity is not high ranking on the list of best kept secrets, but he does try. Singh takes the reports with few words of scorn, despite the fact that they’re technically a day late, and Barry is relieved that that’s one fewer thing he has to deal with today.

His relief drains quickly when his phone rings while he’s halfway up the stairs back to his lab. The ring tone is distinctive - Lady Gaga, “Bad Romance.” Set by Cisco, of course, for STAR Labs. Honestly, Barry had liked her Facebook page sometime back in high school, without much thought. He never even really listened to her music that much, but these days he tends to get the songs stuck in his head on random, and Cisco seems to get some kind of smug joy out of it whenever he catches Barry humming the tune of one. He fumbles the phone from his pocket.

“What’s up?”

“Uh, yeah, man,” Cisco greets him, voice slightly staticy over the line, “we’ve got a bit of a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“The Cold kind.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” Barry says, checking his watch to confirm that it is, in fact, only just gone noon. He’s already heading back down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Yeah, well apparently crime waits for no man. Or maybe they needed good lighting or something. I don’t know man, but Cold and Piper are at the museum down town. There are civilians involved.”

“Shit,” Barry curses under his breath, whatever peace he had found in the day so far being chased out of him. “I’ll be there in a second, I just need to give Joe a heads up.” He hangs up, winding through the precinct to Joe’s desk, where he unfortunately finds not only Joe, but also Captain Singh.

“Oh, uh, hey, Joe, Captain. Joe, listen, I-” he shoots the Captain a look, suddenly divinely relieved that he already finished his reports, but also wondering how to say what he had to say. “-I have to take off. Cisco has - has a cold, and he asked me to come over. A cold. He needs, you know, drugs, and soup, and stuff.” Joe sits back in his chair, eyebrows raised. The Captain rolls his eyes. “My reports are already done, and I’ll - I’ll make the time up later. Also, Iris said she would probably be stopping by, so if she does, tell her I’m sorry and I’ll see her later. I’ve got to go.”

Barry leaves without really giving either of them a chance to say anything, waving over his shoulder as he jogs out. He steps out of the precinct, goes around the corner, and as soon as he’s out of sight, flashes to the labs, into his suit, and immediately sets course for the museum.

“Any updates, Cisco?” he asks over the coms as he runs.

“Not much,” Cisco responds. “Piper is there for the art; I think Cold is just along for the kicks. Or maybe as, like, a chaperone - crime dad or whatever. The cops have officially been called though, so things might escalate soon.”

Barry runs between the civilians, who have mostly pressed themselves to the edges of the room, and as fast as he’s going, they seem completely still, faces frozen in various degrees of worry and fear. He skids to stop between Pied Piper and the display he seems to be ravaging.

In an instant, a sonic blast has him pressed back against the wall, a corner of a frame digging painfully into his spine before he falls limply to the ground. Rathaway reacted to the Flash’s arrival far faster than Barry anticipated, which was Barry’s own fault, but he does his best to just let it roll of his shoulders (it’s easier said than done. Barry remembers thinking this was going to be a good day). He stands, bracing himself to dodge any further attacks.

“Really Barry, already?” Cisco gripes softly, and Barry can tell that it’s mostly a joke, but it rubs him wrong.

“Would like to see you try,” he shoots back, also mostly joking. There’s a moment of silence.

“Shake it off.”

Barry keeps his eyes on Piper, body tense and ready to spring into motion. Rathaway has his hands up, but for the moment, they seem to be in standoff, neither making an immediate move.

“Piper,” Cold calls from across the room, where Barry had, up until now, spared him hardly any attention. “You have what you need, go. I’ll handle our friend in red.”

“I wanted that one,” Piper replies, eyes briefly cutting over to one of the paintings that hadn’t been touched.

“Boo hoo, you have three others. Go, Hart.”

Piper makes a face before hefting his haul and making to leave. Barry moves to stop him, but is immediately intercepted by a blindingly pale beam that grazes along the side of his shin, sending him into a tumble. Barry slams into one of the display stands at the center of the room, but it is thankfully sturdy enough not to come down with him.

“Now, now, Red, where do you think you’re going?” Cold taunts, moving slowly and deliberately closer. “You haven’t even said hello.”

“Everything alright, Barry?” Cisco checks, as Barry drags himself up.

“Fine, just threw me off my balance,” Barry responds into the coms before calling across to Snart: “Sorry, where are my manners. Hello there, Cold. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be going.”

Barry attempts to flash out again. At this point he’s sure that Hartley is already on the move, but there’s still a great chance that he’d be able to catch up. But again, Snart shoots, this time aiming a little too close to one of the civilians fretting to the side. Barry notices that the ray isn’t really on a direct collision course, that really the worse this woman is in for is a shiver and a patch of ice on the wall next to her, but Barry flashes her a distance away anyway, just to prove that he can, a smirk on his face as he does so.

“Too slow, Snart,” he mocks.

“You’re the one letting the thief get away, Flash,” Snart drawls.

 _Aw crap._ Barry touches his coms. “Cisco?”

“Yeah, no, he’s right. Piper is MIA.”

Barry sighs. “Well then,” he says to Cold, “shouldn’t you be running along, too? The cops will be here soon, you know.” Barry doesn’t quite know why he’s tempting Snart to run, when his goal should be to incarcerate him, but he doesn’t question it. That’s part of their game, really.

“I have company to entertain, it would terribly rude of me to leave now.” Cold proceeds to fire at Barry three times in quick succession, Barry dodging smoothly each time. And Barry realizes, as he flashes another civilian who was in dubious danger to the sidelines, that he _is_ entertained. His blood is thrumming is his veins, his lips are stretched into an almost feral smile, and _damn_ , he feels light enough to run around the world.

Sirens sound in the distance, rapidly growing closer, and Barry stops as Snart cocks his head to the sound. A second later Barry’s feet are iced to the floor. It’s not as cold as Barry remembers it being and Barry wonders if maybe something is different about the gun, but it still immobilizes him pretty effectively.

“Sorry to cut this short,” he says, drawing his goggles up his head, “but it seems that I’ve got to run.” He shoots Barry a smirk and a jaunty salute, and calls over his shoulder as he runs from the building, “Be seeing you, Flash.”

Then he’s gone.

Barry is left stuck to the floor, breathing heavily as the sirens close in. The civilians around him gradually grow closer as their fear and panic from the heist start to be replaced with curiosity about their local hero, and Barry blurs his features so maybe no one will notice the grin taking up the visible half of his face.

It was a good day, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I take almost two months to write this? Why, yes, I did.  
> Did I only finish it now because I'm trying to make myself feel productive so I have an excuse for not studying for my finals? I mean, maybe, but you don't have to call me out on it.  
> Is it even any good? That's the best question so far - no, not particularly. It was written over the span of two months and has not been edited at all.

Barry’s hands shake with adrenaline after the fight, a high which lasts about three days before starting to drain away. Sometimes, he’ll remember the confrontation and smile a little, a quick reignition of the thrill. 

That’s one thing Barry can definitely say for Snart - the man knows how to make things exciting. It was low risk and high thrill. All Snart ever came after these days is things, never lives, and Barry doesn’t care much about things to be honest. Sure, he’ll try to stop Cold from taking the art, or the jewels, or whatever it is he’s after, but if Barry fails, then the only consequence really is that some rich person is slightly less rich. Which means that Barry can enjoy the fight, the challenge, the banter, without worrying about everything going to absolute shit, as it sometimes seems that everything else does.

But after three days, the excitement starts to leak away. The fight itself, as brief as it had been, had been practically electrifying, but everything since then has been the same old monotony. Good, maybe, but not great, and the ebbing of those high emotions is making Barry that much more aware of how low he has been. The weight sinking back into his shoulders seems that much heavier and he wonders where it’s coming from, why it’s only getting worse, and how he’s supposed to make it better. 

It occurs to him, of course, that fighting with Cold had made it better, if only briefly. The other metas Barry stops in the in between days don’t have the same effect, which Barry supposes makes sense, since most of them are actively trying to kill him. With Cold it’s some weird combination of low risk and the chemistry of their weird rivalry - the banter, and the strange, established trust that no one is going to get severely hurt. And nothing else can mimic that combination, not really. 

Barry spends some time scrambling. He’s more distracted than normal, which people notice, but he’s been spending so much time thinking about how to counteract this that some other things slip through the cracks a little. The solution is easy to come to, but harder to do anything about.

He can just talk to Snart. The problem, of course, becomes the fact that Snart makes an appearance every six months or so, and the last time Barry saw him was less than a week ago. Maybe that can be dismissed as him indulging some whim of Hartley’s, but even then, Cold’s last major heist was still less than a month ago. The fact is Captain Cold and the Flash really have no reason to interact again so soon.

Barry tries to dismiss it at that. Tries to move on with his life the same way he had been for the past two months, but for some reason it’s so much harder now that he’s thinking about it all the time. He’s canceling plans with Iris and Joe left and right. He’s so frantic for work to keep him busy that he’s ahead on his reports, and after a week of having them silently delivered before he even has a chance to ask for them, Captain Singh is starting to look at Barry oddly, with something that borders maybe on concern, even though all Barry’s doing is his job. 

When his day job can’t keep him occupied, Barry is busying himself with his night job. He spends hours each night patrolling, intervening when he needs to. More often than not, the city is quiet and maybe Barry will stop a mugger, at most, but it keeps him busy, keeps him running, and that’s what counts. When Caitlin and Cisco turn in for the night, Barry keeps going. Sometimes he checks around the shadier districts to make sure nothing dangerous is going on. All the other times he spends in some building or other, doing his best to put the city back together. 

It’s not healthy. He knows it, can feel it in the spaces in his chest that he’s been so aware of lately. He’s not coping right, not communicating properly, but he doesn’t know how to tell Iris or Joe or Caitlin or Cisco how empty he feels, so he just does his best to fill the space. He’s pushing them away, probably, driving a wedge, creating a crack that can’t be fixed with manual labor like the cracks in the city. Iris asks him if he’s feeling alright, and he says he is. They both know he’s lying. She wonders why he can’t just open up; he wonders when she’ll stop bothering to ask. 

And somehow, that’s how he finds himself outside of Saints and Sinners. There are probably easier steps to take to fix his problems - talking to someone, getting help - but if he’s being honest with himself (though at this point, he’s not) this is the step he  _ wants _ to take. He’s chasing the high he felt with Snart those weeks ago like some kind of junkie. 

Barry’s not sure that Snart is going to be in the bar. Cisco is better at tracking people down, but Barry doesn’t know how to ask him to do this. In the past, Snart has been located here pretty reliably, and when Barry found him here, he always looked comfortable and familiar. The bartender knows his name. It’s a good place to start, Barry’s sure, though he doesn’t know what his next step is going to be if this search doesn’t pan out. 

He tries to put on an air of confidence as he walks through the doors, squares his shoulders, holds his head high. Saints and Sinners is more sinners than saints, that’s common knowledge, and it’s the type of place you really don’t want to show weakness in. He probably looks like some kind of kid, dressed in his dad’s clothes, pretending to be a man, but it’s better than walking in with his shoulders around his ears and his hands stuffed in his pockets. 

The bar’s not crowded, but around half of its occupants move to stare at him as he walks in, and Barry fights against a squirm at suddenly having so many sets of shrewd eyes focusing in on him. 

“Hello again, sugar,” the bartender greets him, apparently remembering him from his single visit before, and he gets the strangest feeling that she can see right through any guise he puts up. “Didn’t expect to see a face like yours back here so soon. If you’re looking for Len -” Barry wonders what it means that she read him so easily “- he’s not here, but he should be in within the hour, if you want to wait.”

“Wait?” Barry questions dumbly. She smiles slyly, and the look on her face alone is enough to let Barry know that she’s not quite a saint herself, even if she seems nice.

“Pretty thing like you, I’m sure he’d be glad to come in and see you there. There are plenty of open booths if you want to take one. Or you could pull up a stool and keep me company.” She gestures to the space in front of her, empty, and Barry does as she suggests. She pours him a drink before he can even fully seat himself, and even though Barry can’t get drunk, he appreciates the effort, and immediately wraps a hand around the glass.

“So, sweetheart, what do you want with Len this time?”

Barry splutters as he realizes abruptly that he has no clue. He came here looking for Snart to - to what? To talk? They're enemies, Barry can't just approach the man in a bar looking for conversation. To fight? They're in public, Barry has an identity to protect. He came here to find Snart, but he didn’t come with a plan of what to do after, and it’s only occurring to him now that this may have been a very bad idea.

As he fumbles, the bartender’s smirk grows. She shoots him a wink. “Nevermind, then. You don’t have to explain anything to me, honey.” Barry takes a large swig of whatever alcohol she gave him when he sat down. It burns his throat a bit, and he can almost remember a time when this actually would have gotten him drunk. His shoulders hunch in a little, defensive.

“It’s not - it’s not like. Not.” He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, and all of his sentences come out broken.

“Oh, I know.” The bartender outright laughs and something in Barry sags with the knowledge that he’s so completely out of his depth here. “I’m just teasing you, darling. Red suits you.” Barry realizes his face is hot and his embarrassment mixes with the paranoid fear that she knows something she shouldn’t. 

Barry stands abruptly. Everything catches up with him, just like that, like he’s been running and only just now came to a stop. Barry has been in this bar once before. It started with asking Leonard Snart for help and it ended with Barry standing at Ferris Air feeling inexplicably betrayed by a man he never should have placed his trust in to begin with. That’s how it ended, that was supposed to be the  _ end,  _ but here Barry is, seeking Snart out again. 

He’ll leave. Leave, put this behind him, pretend this notion never even passed through his head. He’ll go home. He’ll call Iris, and she’ll come over, and he’ll hold her and maybe he’ll actually talk. He’ll take this day in his own hands and he’ll make it a good one. He’ll do the same tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, and he doesn’t need Snart for that. Snart has nothing to do with any of this, and the only reason Barry is here at all is because he is trying to avoid doing the hard things he doesn’t want to do, but knows he has to. Like sharing. And not being strong. And not being the hero. 

“Sorry,” he says to the woman behind the bar, and his voice only shakes a little. “I’ve got to go actually. I’ll just… I’ll talk to Sn- Len some other time. I - Don’t tell him I was here.” And with that, Barry turns to leave with no intention of coming back. He intends to do the right thing, the healthy thing. 

It is not his fault that Leonard Snart is already standing a few feet behind him, having just come inside. And it is not his fault that he then falls back into his seat. He doesn’t even make the conscious decision to stay. He just. Sits back down. He’s completely helpless to this turn of events.

“Why Barry,” Snart drawls, and a twinge of annoyance - the good kind, though - runs through Barry’s veins, “running out so soon?”

“Well,” Barry replies, “you were taking so long to show up. I was getting sick of waiting.” His voice is too weak and Snart definitely notices. Snart always notices. He sees straight through the cracks in Barry’s armor. 

“It would be such a shame for you to go before I had a chance to know why you were here in the first place.” Snart takes a seat at the bar as well, leaving a stool between Barry and himself. He turns to the bartender, fingers tapping slowly against the wood of the counter. “Get me a soda, would you, Brandy?”

“You got it, boss.” The woman behind the bar salutes with her middle finger, and Snart scoffs next to him. The woman’s name, apparently, is Brandy, but, Barry tells himself, there’s no reason for him to remember that, because he has no intention of making these visits regular occurrences. He doesn’t need to remember the name of a woman he’s never going to see after tonight. He takes note of it anyway, he can’t stop himself. She comes back a moment later with a dark, fizzing drink and Snart thanks her. He takes a sip.

“So, kid, you’re keeping us in suspense.” He pins Barry with a sharp look. All Barry can do in response is fiddle with the end of his sleeve. “What are you doing here?”

Barry still hasn’t thought of any kind of explanation. There is no good one. There is no good reason for him to be here. His eyes flit around the room, landing nervously on a dozen things before settling on one of Snart’s hands.

“I wanted to play pool.” Barry’s excuse sinks through the air like something dead in the water. He had seen the pool tables off to the side and his mind latched onto it. The words were out of his mouth before he could second guess them. Which he definitely would have, given the chance, because it’s an awful excuse, and the raise of Snart’s eyebrow shows that he knows it, too. 

“I- I wanted to play pool, and I… remembered that there were tables here, but I know you come here, so I thought I could…” Barry trails off, realizing he’s digging himself a deeper hole.

“So you thought you could … play pool with me?” Snart fills in the blank. Barry feels almost like they’re playing a game of Mad Libs. Noun: villain; verb: play pool; adjective: ridiculously stupid. Snart smirks, smug and condescending, like he knows Barry is making it up as he goes (he probably does).

“Yes,” Barry says, because he has nothing better to say.

“You know, Red,” Snart begins, and Barry shoots a look at Brandy, who’s thankfully tending to a new arrival at the other end of the bar, “sometimes I think about what a shame it is STAR labs snatched you up. You really would make an excellent rogue. And then-” he sighs dramatically, eyes cutting, “-you open your mouth.”

Barry doesn’t know how to respond, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Look, he learns. You’re much more convincing like this, kid.” 

Barry opens his mouth to say something, he doesn’t know what, yet, but Snart cuts him off.

“No, we’re on a roll, let’s keep it up, shall we? You said you were here to play pool. Let’s play pool, Barry.” And when Snart walks towards the tables, Barry follows him, because he doesn’t know what else to do. 

“And, while we’re at it,” Snart continues, pulling two sticks up from where they lean against the wall, “why don’t we put money on it? Say, ten dollars?”

Barry isn’t much of a gambler. But he’s pretty good at pool, and ten dollars isn’t that much. So he catches the cue that Snart tosses to him and says: “Okay.”

Snart sets everything up in a way that clearly shows he’s well practiced. When they play, Barry is pretty happy about how well he’s doing, until he bothers to take note of Snart’s success. Barry is good at pool, sure, but Snart is something else. It seems like Snart never misses, like he always lines up his cue exactly how he wants to, with the exact results that he was seeking. There’re no flubs, no near misses, no second attempts, because the first one always works out. Maybe Barry should have seen it coming. Predicted it from that sharp way Snart’s eyes are, the way they run over everything, so cool and calculative. 

Needless to say, Barry loses his ten dollars in record time, and Snart’s smirk makes Barry regret making the bet in the first place. A superhero losing a game of pool to his “nemesis” in a dive bar certainly seems like some kind of new low. 

“Robbing people even at the pool tables, huh?” Barry says as he hands his money over. Something in Snart’s face changes. It’s unnamable and barely noticeable, but the man suddenly becomes that much more intimidating. 

“I’m a thief Barry,” he says coolly, “that’s what we do.” He tilts his head back slightly, managing to look down on Barry despite the fact that they’re the same height. He slips the money -  _ Barry’s money  _ \- into his back pocket.

“I don’t appreciate the snark, Snart.”

“Try saying that five times fast.”

Their banter, as usual, is light hearted on the surface but somehow heavier underneath. There’s an undercurrent of challenge and antagonism that sparks between them, and sometimes it makes Barry want to shove Snart against the wall by the throat with a smile on his face. Barry’s not used to feeling so aggressive, but it’s really kind of nice. Barry leans closer, conspiratory.

“I could say it so fast you wouldn’t even be able to hear me,” he says lowly. It’s a reminder and maybe a threat. Snart folds his hands over his pool cue and doesn’t back down in the slightest. Barry didn’t expect him to. 

“Go on, then,” Snart challenges and Barry grins.

“How do you know I haven’t already?”

“Touche.” 

The charged silence is inexplicable considering the foolishness of the conversation. They are both waiting for a conflict that hasn’t yet arisen, but inevitably will if they spend enough time in close proximity. They are both waiting for that last straw to throw them over the edge, and it’s almost like they’re both eager for it. 

“So Barry,” Snart begins, and Barry tenses, prepared for god knows what, but prepared, “What are you actually doing here?”

And god damn it, Barry still doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t think he ever would, no matter how many times he was asked, or how many chances he was given to think up an excuse. Barry just stares at him, and Snart stares back before humming a low unimpressed note that causes Barry to look away. 

“In that case, it’s probably time for you to go,” Snart says, and Barry doesn’t want to leave, but he doesn’t protest. There’s something oddly freeing about sitting in a dive bar full of petty criminals next to a man that’s supposed to be his enemy. Is his enemy.

Barry stands there for a moment. It is time for him to go. He feels like he should say something before he goes, but he can’t find the words, doesn’t even know where to start looking for them. So he doesn’t say anything at all; he stands there for a moment, and then he walks out and no goodbyes are exchanged. Brandy shoots him a disinterested wave from where she’s wiping down glasses. 

He leaves, and then he walks out of sight of the windows, and then he just stands on the sidewalk for a moment. He’s frustrated with himself, mostly. Frustrated that he did this, frustrated that he doesn’t regret it. Frustrated that he has to force himself to even to see all the reasons this was a bad idea, because so much of him is overcome by something too closely akin to happiness. 

Barry is frustrated because he knows that if things get bad again, he’ll come back. He knows that he’ll try not to. He’ll work hard to convince himself that everything will be fine. He’ll hold Iris tighter, he’ll eat breakfast with Joe more often, he’ll play more games with Cisco, and talk more with Caitlin. He will do a lot of things to fix the empty feeling inside of him, and probably none of them will work, because they haven’t so far. Barry is frustrated because he  _ knows _ this, but he can’t stop it. Or doesn’t want to, which is worse, because it means he’s actually an awful person rather than just one with poor self control. 

Barry starts on the path towards home, not running, just walking, maybe even slower than usual. He takes a deep breath and revels in the fact that, at this moment, he doesn’t feel empty. It’s a nice feeling, even if a lot of that old space is filled with guilt. 

He enjoys the walk back to his apartment in a way he hasn’t enjoyed walking in a while. It’s a nice night out. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy wow, another chapter in less than a week. Shows how focused on finals I've been. Also how abruptly addicted I've gotten to this story.  
> This chapter didn't go as far in the story as I expected it to, but I cut it off because it was starting to get pretty long. Not much Len, but some other character interactions (Barry and Caitlin's friendship is such a beautiful thing and I need more of it), and lots of Barry being angsty.

Barry does go back again. The second time, Snart is surprised, even more surprised than he was the first time, and it’s actually visible on his face, if only for a moment. The second time is only four days after the first, because Barry is apparently an awful person who  _ also _ has poor self control. After he recognizes it as inevitable, it seems pointless to avoid it. Sure, he goes through the perfunctory motions, as if appeasing some invisible judge, but at the end of the day, he can’t say he tried particularly hard to stay away. 

Snart is surprised, and even though he wipes it off his face in a split second, Barry can still hear it in his voice when he drawls out a smooth “Back so soon?” Brandy smirks at him, and Barry squirms, flushes, but squares his jaw and says “I like the nachos here,” even though he has never had them. They play more pool, not for money this time, though that doesn’t stop Snart from rubbing in the fact that his wallet is ten dollars heavier thanks to Barry. This time, Snart does not ask Barry why he is there, but Barry can still feel those blue eyes on him, intense and assessing.

The third time, Snart is not surprised anymore. The man is good at adapting, and this time he just greets Barry by name and that’s that. The third time, they fight. It’s not as explosive as their fights in costume, obviously, but in a way it’s worse. It’s more personal without alter egos between them.

Barry doesn’t remember exactly what is said, but he knows that their normal antagonism escalates into something bitter and acidic. It goes over the line when Barry says something about Snart dragging Lisa down with him, which is preposterous because Lisa is stubborn and independent enough not to be  _ dragged _ anywhere. In return, Snart says something underhanded about Iris, still in the context of  _ siblings _ , and says Barry must have some kind of complex. It doesn't get better. It goes over the line and it does not come back.

It is very hard, then, not to make things physical. Barry restrains himself only because they are in a bar full of people who are watching them with varying degrees of stealth. Barry thinks that it is probably not often that someone comes into Saints and Sinners and stands toe to toe with Captain Cold. They are not shouting, but there is enough tension between them that people have noticed. There is a tick in Snart’s jaw and Barry’s hands are tensed and shaking slightly at his sides. 

The third time ends with Snart grabbing Barry by the arm - twice, actually, because Barry yanks himself away the first time - and dragging him out of the bar, slamming the door between them hard enough that it shakes. It’s bad. When the anger fades from the edges of Barry’s vision, he can’t remember the whole second half of the words they exchanged. 

After that, Barry doesn’t know when the fourth time will be. Some moments, he thinks that maybe he won’t go back at all. Maybe three times will be the end of it. He can put it in the past and ignore it in his future. Other times, he is less naive, and he realizes that whatever is making him go in the first place is still not out of his system. He will continue to go, as long as it is inside him. He doesn’t know how to get it out.  

There is a moment when he almost talks to Caitlin about it. They are sitting together after Barry finishes off a petty thief (a meta, but not connected to Snart or his rouges) and Caitlin is cleaning up an already-healing gash in Barry’s arm. She looks at him with soft, concerned eyes and bites her lips, which Barry knows she only does when something is bothering her. 

Sure enough, a few moments later, she asks: “Barry, is everything alright?”

“It’s just a scratch Caitlin,” Barry responds. “It’s already healing. I’ll be good as new in no time.” He knows that’s not what she’s talking about. He can be dense sometimes, but he’s been self conscious and paranoid enough about his behavior recently that he can’t miss what she’s actually referring to. He hopes though, that maybe she’ll drop it; maybe his deflection will be enough for her not to press forward. 

“That’s not what I meant,” she says, and Barry’s hopes deflate. “I meant with you. In general.” She hesitates, choosing her words carefully, Barry suspects for her own sake as much as his. “It’s been a tough few months. I just want you to know you can talk to me. We can do this together.” Her voice is soft. The words are hard for her to say, but she squeezes his shoulder and he knows she means it.

It reminds Barry that Caitlin is hurting, too. He never forgets, but sometimes he’s so distracted by his own pain that he forgets just  _ how much _ . Of course, he never forgets that the whole mess is his fault, but he tries not to focus on that when he’s with the others. It’s easy to let himself get lost in the guilt of what he’s done to them, but it’s selfish to make it about himself like that when they’re suffering. 

“Is everything alright, Barry?” Caitlin prompts gently. 

For a moment, Barry considers telling her. He remembers singing together and holding her hair back and talking about Iris and Ronnie and trying to move on together. He remembers  _ sharing _ . It seems like he was always so quick to do that before, and he doesn’t know why it's suddenly so hard to say anything with actual meaning. He can tell her how he’s feeling. He can tell her about the emptiness. Looking in her eyes now, Barry thinks she might understand; he thinks he can see some of that desolateness reflected back at him. Maybe he’ll tell her about Snart. He’ll put that desire into words for the first time, set it free from the circular track of his thoughts and let it into the world. 

But he can’t do that. Caitlin will probably understand the way he bounces back and forth between hollow, sad, and numbly complacent. If he tells her that, she’ll make a soft noise and hold his hand and tell him about the hole in her life that Ronnie left behind. But she can never accept the second part, and Barry knows that. 

Caitlin is an amazing friend, but she never hesitates to tell Barry exactly what she thinks. She doesn’t spare his feelings or tell him what he wants to hear. He remembers the way she steered him so insistently away from Iris. No matter how many times Barry said he loved her, Caitlin thought it was a bad idea, and she vocalized that every chance she got

If he tells her about Snart, she’ll look at him with confusion, and ask him what he’s doing,  _ why _ he’s doing it. Barry won’t be able to give a good enough answer, and she won’t understand . She’ll tell him all the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this, and Barry will listen and know they’re all true, but he won’t stop. 

“Barry?” Caitlin prompts again. He’s probably been quiet for too long. Caitlin’s eyebrows are furrowed and her lips are pulled down.

“I’m fine, Caitlin. Great.” It is a transparent lie because even if he was coping well, how could someone be “great” after so much bad. Caitlin lets it rest, though. She squeezes his shoulder again.

“Okay,” she says simply. “I’m always here.” 

Barry’s teeth come together as his jaw clenches. Here he goes again, pushing everyone away. He wonders how much pushing it will take for his friends to not be there when he needs them. He hopes he never finds out, but the pessimistic part that has been dominating him these days insists he’s already close. 

Before he can dwell on it, Cisco’s head appears from around the corner, and after seeing them, the rest of him follows. “Sweet, you’re still here,” he says. Too often these days Barry has been leaving as soon as possible without even bothering to say goodbye. 

“Still here,” Barry confirms. “What’s up?”

Cisco pauses, purses his lips, runs a hand through his hair. Barry sits up straighter. 

“Your phone has been ringing,” Cisco states. Barry doesn’t have room for his cell in the Flash suit, and he hasn’t bothered to pick it up since he got back, so it had been left in the main space of the cortex with Cisco and the computers. “I considered bringing it in here, but I was working on some schematics, and I was in the  _ zone _ , man, so I just answered it.” He doesn’t seem particularly sorry about this invasion of privacy, and Barry doesn’t really mind. “Anyway. Turns out Wellsobard had a will. His lawyer wants to meet with you.”

Barry’s world shrieks and grinds to a messy halt. Wells -- Thawne -- Eobard --

Barry’s brain doesn’t even know where to start. He can’t get past the name. He avoids thinking about his homicidal mentor as often as possible, but when he can’t help it, he never knows what to call the man. In the year plus that Barry had known him, Barry knew him as Wells. That is still Barry’s first instinct. Wells this, Wells that. But that identity is a lie. Barry has never met Harrison Wells, and he never will. That man died when Barry was only a child. So he calls his old enemy Thawne, but that’s not right either. Thawne is Eddie’s name, and Eddie was a good person, a hero. His memory doesn’t deserve to be constantly associated with the monster who shared his genes. So, Eobard. But first names are too personal, too humanizing.

Cisco has his own personal solution of using the name “Wellsobard.” It works for Cisco, helps to differentiate the man he was from the man they thought they knew. But actually using it rubs Barry wrong. It seems almost like a joke, which it partly is, because humor is the way Cisco copes with things. Barry, of course, doesn’t cope with humor. Barry doesn’t really cope at all. 

Reverse Flash, Barry’s brain fills in finally. It’s safe and accurate, and from there, Barry can start thinking again.

It has never occured to Barry that the Reverse Flash might have made a will. After all, he was parading around in an identity that wasn’t his own, and he wasn’t particularly invested in the life of Harrison Wells in any way that didn’t further his own agenda. Barry can’t think of a reason for the Reverse Flash to care about Harrison Well’s assets. But here they are. The Reverse Flash has a will and Barry has something to do with it. 

He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

No, he knows how to feel, he just refuses to feel it. It would hurt. It would be devastating. At this moment, it is easier to stare into space and feel nothing. 

“Barry, are you alright?” Caitlin asks for the third time tonight. He just looks at her vacantly and Cisco clears his throat.

“He’s dead, man. A will just means that you’re getting free shit from a dead guy. No harm, no foul.” He’s trying for reassuring, but falling somewhat short. He’s not comfortable with this turn of events either, and they all exchange looks, wondering what’s coming next. 

“No, you’re right,” Barry eventually agrees when the silence stretches on too long. “I’ll… schedule a meeting.”

Barry leaves after that, but not before Caitlin reminds him one last time that she’s there if he needs her. He feels like he’s slowly falling to pieces, but he doesn’t tell her that. He just leaves.

He goes back to his apartment, and sits on his couch, unfocused. He stays that way until Iris arrives. They had discussed her coming over earlier in the day, but Barry completely forgot until he hears the lock click. He glances up, startled, and Iris smiles at him as she comes in, but it falls into concern after only a moment.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. Having been so close for so long, it is easy for her to tell when something is off with him. She asks with a certain hesitance, though, that makes Barry realize she doesn’t expect to get an answer, and guilt stabs him between the ribs. 

“Eobard Thawne wrote me into his will,” he tells her, and his voice sounds distant to his own ears. He doesn’t know how long it takes for her to cross the room and sit next to him, but he’s zoned out enough that it seems instantaneous. For once, time seems to be moving faster instead of slower, like its slipping between his fingers. 

“Okay,” Iris says, voice low and calming as she slips an arm around him. “What does that mean?”

“I-I don’t know.” Barry can feel panic rising beneath the numbness, but Iris half-soothes it back down with a squeeze of the hand. “I have to meet with his lawyer. I don’t-” he cuts himself off. Iris grabs him by the shoulders and turns him gently until they’re facing each other on the couch. She captures both of his hands and holds them tight. 

“Okay,” she says, “that’s okay. We can call in the morning, schedule a time. Do you want me to go with you?”

The “no” is on the tip of Barry’s tongue. He doesn’t want Iris there. He doesn’t want to have to keep his composure, but he doesn’t want Iris to bear witness to him losing it. He doesn’t want her to see what a mess he is beneath it all. He  _ needs _ her to not see. 

But Barry doesn’t think he can do this alone. The “no” is on the tip of his tongue but all that comes out is a broken “yes.” Iris pulls him into an embrace and he holds her as tight as he can, as if she is the one who needs to be held together. She runs her hands through the back of his hair, and some of the muscles along his spine relax marginally.

“It’s going to be okay, Barry,” she assures him. “We’ll get through this. We’ve already beaten him.” Barry wishes it was that simple, but he doesn’t say anything. They stay in each others’ arms for a long moment, and then Iris pulls away and drags both of them up.

“Come on,” she whispers, “let's go to bed.”

“It’s not even ten,” Barry protests weakly.

“It’s been a long day. You’re tired.”

Barry is tired. He’s saturated with that bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that makes you want to melt into the floor and out of existence because you feel like that’s the only way you could possibly get any rest. He wants to sleep without end, but the thought that he has to get up in the morning almost makes him not want to sleep at all. Maybe no reprieve would be better than such a tauntingly temporary one. It’s almost cruel, that he has to wake up at all. 

He doesn’t say any of that. How could he, without bringing a look of horror and devastation to Iris’ eyes? He doesn’t want her to look at him like that. Instead, he follows Iris to his room, and he lets her pull him into the bed, and after she wraps her arms around him, he returns the favor. He does his best to sleep.

-x-

Barry has nightmares. He has so many these days that there’s a certain level of horror that he has almost become accustomed to, but the ones he has this night are a step above. He wakes in a cold sweat barely an hour after he falls asleep. He doesn’t know where he is or what’s going on. When he opens his eyes, he registers the shapes of his dresser and bedside table and the faint light coming through the window, but he doesn’t know what any of it means and can’t connect it in his head. His breath claws at his throat like a trapped animal. His face is wet and numb and his mouth is full of salt. He brings his hands up to his chest, but he can’t feel the tips of his fingers against his skin. His ears are full of static.

He rolls to the side, searching for help, for safety. All he gets is the lurching feeling of gravity taking its hold on him as he crashes out of bed and onto the ground, bringing half the blankets with him. There is a rug on the floor, but it is thin and the coolness of the wood beneath it seeps up, soothing some of the buzzing panic beneath his skin. He presses his head down, rolls to the side, and fists his hands as he finally begins to regain some awareness. 

It is just past five in the morning. The sky is starting to turn just faintly grey outside. Barry laid in bed not sleeping for a very long time, and then he fell into the nightmares. They were only dreams. He is okay. Fine. At the very least, he is in no immediate danger. Tears are drying, tacky, on his face. Iris is awake and she is talking to him, voice loud and frantic. She has not seen him like this before. This has only happened a very few times, maybe four, and she has not been there for any of them. Barry does not find her presence comforting.

He wishes he were alone so he could lay here in peace for however long it takes for him to not feel like he is dying. Instead, he has to pull himself up and deal with Iris. She is a mess, and she needs him to comfort her. He gives himself a moment longer on the floor and gets his breathing under a semblance of control. He grabs the edge of the bed and uses it to pull himself up into a seated position.

“Iris,” he says, voice a rasp, “calm down.”

“Calm down?” she parrotts, hysteric. “Barry, what was that?”

“That was-” his words catch in his throat. “That was nothing.”

“Nothing?” she demands, her worry and fear now punctuated by anger. “You are on the floor, Barry, that doesn’t look like nothing! You were gasping,  _ sobbing _ ! I thought you were hurt!” Barry moves up to his knees, reaching across the bed and running his hands down Iris’ arms in an attempt to pacify her. 

“Iris - Iris, you don’t need to worry. I’m okay. I - I’m fine, I swear. I’m fine.” She pulls away from him.

“Fine!” she spits. “That’s what you always say. You always tell me you’re fine, you  _ swear _ you’re fine, but you’re  _ always  _ lying. You can’t pretend your way out of this one, and you can’t expect me not to worry! You woke up in the middle of a panic attack, Barry. That’s not fine!”

Barry is too tired, and he’s still off balance from his rude awakening. He doesn’t know how to deal with this, and he would probably deal with it the wrong way even if he was fully functioning. As he is, he says the completely wrong thing, of course.

“Iris, I can’t - I don’t know what you want from me. I’m fi-”

“Stop! God damn it, Barry. All I want is for you to  _ talk  _ to me. I want you to tell me things, like you used to. We are supposed to be in love! There is no reason for things to be worse now than they were before.”

“We _are_ in love,” he responds dumbly. “I love you, Iris. I do, so much, please.”

“Then talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Barry almost says he’s fine again, but only gets out the “I” before he realizes what a bad idea that is. But he can’t actually tell the truth. He doesn’t know why. It shouldn’t be so hard. Sharing and getting help would only make things better, and Barry knows that, but for some reason, he just can’t do it, and he hates himself for it. He stays silent. 

Iris wipes angrily at the tears that have built up in the corner of her eyes. She shakes her head and her hair flies about her. 

“I can’t do this right now,” she announces. She stands and crosses the room in slow motion, but Barry makes no move to stop her. “If you ever decide you want to talk, I’ll be here. I won’t be by tonight, I have an article to write.” 

And then she is gone, and Barry is still on the floor. 

He gets up when the light gets stronger, when it becomes, inarguably, morning. He eats protein bars instead of making himself a proper breakfast. He is somehow late for work, despite having been doing nothing of import. 

It’s when he’s in the lab, around eleven o’clock, that he remembers Eobard Thawne’s lawyer. Iris had said they would call in the morning. At this moment, there is no they, and Barry is alone. He stares at his phone for a moment, and he is feeling detached enough that pulling up his call history and dialing the lawyer is easy. 

The man is friendly enough, business-like. He won’t tell Barry anything over the phone. They arrange a meeting for the next afternoon, the soonest time the both of them can manage. Barry hangs up. His hands are shaking, but he can’t really feel it. His fingers don’t seem like his own. 

Still holding his phone, he opens his messages, goes to Iris. They have not texted each other today, but Barry types something up now, thumbs moving uncharacteristically slowly across his screen. He closes the app. Reopens it periodically, the message still there as a draft. An hour and a half later he finally presses send. 

It’s simple: “Meeting with lawyer tomorrow at 3. Will you still come with?”

Iris replies ten minutes later with an equally simple: “Of course.”

They are going to be okay. That means Barry will be okay, too, eventually. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn't notice, I'm taking all the liberties I want with Thawne's will and that whole thing. I really don't remember how it went down in the show, so I'm just writing what suits me.


End file.
